Free Assault on Alpha Base by Doug Beason Page B

ragged semicircle in front of him.
    One man, the man who appeared to be in charge, stepped forward. He took a deep drag on a cigarette and threw it to the ground. “I’m Macklin Renault, in charge of this unit. General Ashtah said that you’ll brief us about Alpha Base.”
    Harding looked puzzled as he shook Renault’s hand. “Mr. Renault, I thought the Do’brainese militia would assist us.”
    Renault smiled wearily. His blond hair contrasted with a deep tan, his eyes steady, unwavering, as they seemed to take in every detail. “Perhaps I should have introduced myself as Colonel Renault, Doctor. My men are commissioned in Do’brai’s army.”
    “But you’re obviously not Do’brainese …”
    Renault spoke softly. “Does it matter, Dr. Harding? The French have fought their wars for years like this. I hesitate to call us mercenaries—it’s such a strong word—but it’s fairly descriptive.”
    Harding raised his brows. “I don’t think it matters where you’re from, Colonel. As long as I have your allegiance.”
    “No problem with that. That’s what we’re getting paid for. My men swear their allegiance to me; they come from all nations and are bound to none. My orders are to obey your instructions. Now, I think you had better fill us in on Alpha Base.” He steered him away from the other men, toward the military transport.
    “Just a minute.” Harding went back to the Cessna and grabbed a satchel. He lugged the brown bag to Renault. Clearing a place in the dirt underneath one of the military transport’s wings, Harding pulled out a handful of U.S. Park Service maps. Kneeling, they pored over them.
    Renault pointed at one of the maps. “The crucial item is a staging area for the C-130, away from the public eye but close enough for a helicopter to fly in from Alpha Base.”
    Harding turned red, remembering the fuss that Vikki had made. “We’re taking care of that. But what about your men? Who are the key players?”
    Renault stood and nodded to his legion of mercenaries. “I’ve known these men for years. Some of them are like my own sons.” He searched the men’s faces for a moment, then pointed. “There, Frank Koch, the sandy-haired man sitting by the runway … and over there, Pablo Lesueur, the Jamaican by the mock-up bunker. Those are two of my best.”
    Harding stood, wiping his hands on his pants. He squinted at the man called Koch; the man sat alone and chewed on a fingernail, silently looking out over the runway.
    Renault said, “Koch was born too late for the second Iraq war. He joined the Army when he was seventeen and tried to get into Airborne. They refused him a chance for his third jump after he decked the Airborne chaplain, so he put in for helicopter training.
    “The Army felt that it had to give people a second chance. So instead of a court-martial, he went to Fort Rucker, flying choppers. But at Rucker he decked his flight instructor after a shouting match on the tarmac, something about Koch sleeping with the instructor’s wife. That time they booted him out of the Army. Now he flies for me.”
    Renault nodded next to the Jamaican. Tall and lanky, Pablo Lesueur kicked a small ball around with some men. Renault said, “Pablo joined me five years ago. I needed a guard to direct an arms shipment in at night. Pablo held ten flares in a row, keeping them until the flame burned down to his fingers, the last smoldering his flesh so he couldn’t open his hand. But the shipment got through, all because of him.”
    Renault turned at Harding. “He’ll do anything, and won’t quit while he’s at it. The same goes for Koch.”
    Harding stood and stretched his legs. He said, “Okay, sounds good. But what about the two hundred guards on Alpha Base? Can your men really take out the barracks?”
    Renault narrowed his eyes. “We’ve got it down to a science, Dr. Harding. Watch.” He turned and snapped an order in Spanish. One of his men jumped up and dragged a mortar in front of